


give and take

by MegaBadBunny



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Desk Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficandchips, Fluff and Smut, NSFW Art, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaBadBunny/pseuds/MegaBadBunny
Summary: she’s seized by a sudden urge to see just how much she can get away with, just how far she can push





	give and take

 

She can’t say why, exactly, but she’s seized by a sudden urge to see just how much she can get away with. Just how far she can push. She blames it on the way he rumples his hair after a good think, the way he bites his lip in concentration.

“Suppose I could just use the sonic,” the Doctor says.  
  
“Suppose you could,” Rose teases, only half paying attention.  
  
The Doctor looks up from the monitor just long enough to spare her a glance. “You don’t think it’s cheating? Only I’ve been trying to crack this passcode for a while now, and I’m sure I’ve got better things to do.”  
  
“I’m sure you do,” Rose replies, shooting him a tongue-touched grin, fluttering her eyelashes just so.  
  
If the Doctor notices, he doesn’t react. Rose shrugs. She doesn’t really need to be here for this—the facility is closed, has been for hours, and they haven’t encountered so much as a caretaker, let alone anyone who could cause them trouble. But Torchwood protocol doesn’t allow for fewer than two agents on any field mission, and considering that the Doctor isn’t technically an agent (nor, he insists, is he employed by Torchwood at all, as he conveniently ignores the money they deposit into his account every so often), they’re already pushing things as it is. But nothing of interest has happened, and Rose is  _bored_.  
  
She wanders around the room while the Doctor types, her gaze traveling idly over the place. Computers, desks, chairs, and more computers greet her gaze. Security cameras peek at her as well, winking from the ceiling corners, but the Doctor already took care of those, disabling them with the sonic as easily as turning off a light-switch. Still, Rose can’t help the feeling that someone could spot them at any moment.  
  
The corner of her mouth quirks upward in a sly smile. It would be stupid to start anything in this building. It’s a private facility; they’re not allowed to be in here. Functioning cameras or not, they could get  _caught_.  
  
She chances a look back at the Doctor. His line of sight is fixed firmly on the computer as he fishes the sonic out of his trouser-pocket. Rose openly studies him from the opposite side of the room, watches how light from the monitor paints the valleys and planes of his face in soft white. Her eyes drift lower, to the expanse of neck left exposed by his oxford. His necktie is loose today and the amount of open skin on display is almost obscene by his standards. In her imagination, Rose traces the slope of his throat with her lips, with her tongue.  
He furrows his brow in concentration and she could almost imagine it was because of her, because of her hands in his hair and her mouth on his skin. She suppresses a shudder. God, he’s gorgeous.  
  
“So, how long will it take with the sonic?” she asks. Her eyes linger on his hands as he uses the screwdriver with one and types with the other. His fingers dance gracefully over the keyboard; Rose finds herself drawn to the lines of them, their elegance and precision.   
  
When the Doctor doesn’t immediately respond, she saunters toward him, leaning down when she reaches the desk. Ostensibly, this is a good angle for her to crane her neck and take a look at the screen; conveniently, this is also a good excuse to let her neckline fall just the tiniest bit open. Her breasts may be on the smaller side, but she still takes pride in them; they’re pretty and pert, like two perfect twin scoops of vanilla ice cream or two white peaches, tinged pink in places and soft to the touch.  
  
Ugh. Speaking of touch, if he doesn’t start picking up on things  _very_  soon, she’s just going to have to take care of those things herself.  
  
Rose circles around to stand behind him, leaning down once again, this time to look over his shoulder. She lowers herself until she’s just barely touching the Doctor, her breasts weighing gently against his shoulder blade, her lips hovering in dangerously close proximity to his ear.  
  
“Doctor,” she says, practically humming, “how much longer?”  
  
She would like to believe the sudden hitch in his breathing is because of her, and she allows herself to think that until she realizes he’s—  
  
“Done,” he announces triumphantly. “Well, done with this part, anyway. Now to transmit the information. Then we’ll be properly done.”  
  
“And after that?”  
  
“After that, I can only think your beloved Torchwood will want us to file some sort of paperwork. Always with the paperwork, that lot.”  
  
Rose presses against him a little firmer. “And after that?”  
  
“Well, after that, I suppose we should call it a night, shouldn’t we?”  
  
Rolling her eyes, Rose stands up. If the Doctor notices her absence, he doesn’t show it; he continues type-typing and click-clicking, transmitting information so quickly on the screen that Rose’s vision blurs with the speed of it. The motion and the bright screen hurt her eyes, so she turns away, perching on the edge of the desk instead. Her bum sitting mere centimeters from the keyboard, she considers bumping the Doctor’s hand with her hip, but abandons that tactic in favor of accidentally-on-purpose grazing his thigh instead, her leg brushing his when she crosses her ankles.  
  
(It’s a skirt day, today. He loves skirt days. Well. He loves most days. But he often gives himself away through eyes that dart away just a little too quickly, a hand that pats her thigh and lingers just a little too long. Fingers that sneak beneath and push the hem over her hips and plunge into dark places.)  
  
Rose imagines, briefly, how the Doctor might absentmindedly reach for her hand perched on her knee, how his fingers would interlace with hers while his thumb would wander, tracing ticklish circles over her silky-smooth skin. But right now he doesn’t seem capable of noticing that she even has legs, never mind how bare they are.  
  
She sighs. She loves him, but he’s bloody hopeless sometimes. She supposes it’s her fault, trying to compete for his attention against anything that buzzes or whirs or lights-up or goes  _ding_. It never bothered her before, in the other universe when things never progressed past hand-holding or kisses of gratitude. But now…well, now things are different. Aren’t they?  
  
Ah well. At least this proves he’s still mostly the same. Not that she needs proof, not anymore, but still. She’ll take comfort where she can get it.  
  
“All right, that should do it,” the Doctor says, shutting the computer down. “That should give Torchwood everything they need.”  
  
“Enough to topple an evil corporation?”  
  
“More than enough,” the Doctor replies with a grin, but he’s still too distracted to look at her.   
  
Feeling a bit silly about the whole thing, Rose pushes up from the desk. “Well, you’re right—time to call it a night,” she says, smoothing down her skirt. She turns toward the door. “Watching you work made me famished,” she says. “Maybe would could try that new takeaway place on the way home—”  
  
Suddenly the Doctor’s fingers are closing around her wrist. Before she has a chance to turn around, or even properly react at all, his other hand reaches around her waist, drawing her in close so that her back is flush with his front. Rose can’t stop the small gasp that escapes when his hips make contact, at the feel of him hot and already half-hard against her lower back.  
  
It occurs to her, suddenly, that maybe he isn’t quite so hopeless as he seems.  
  
“Leaving so soon?” he asks, his breath warm against her ear, his voice dangerously low.  
  
Rose swallows, a thrill shooting through her. “I thought we were finished here.”  
  
“Well, you thought wrong, then, didn’t you?”  
  
She arches her hips experimentally, grinding against him until his grip on her waist tightens. “Oh, I don’t know,” she drawls. “Feels like I had the right thought.”  
  
Chuckling under his breath, the Doctor brushes her hair away from her neck, fingertips grazing feather-light over her skin. She shivers deliciously. Bites her lip in anticipation.  
  
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” the Doctor says, planting kisses along the join of her shoulder and neck, “but this new body is much more difficult to control than the old one. Before, it was simply a matter of exercising discipline, and only a small amount at that. But now I’m quite a bit more—”  
  
“—responsive?” Rose suggests, pressing her bum into him again.  
  
“Frustrated.” He nips at her neck and her toes curl in response. “Don’t think I missed any of your display tonight. I see everything, Rose, and I smell it and I taste it, too.”  
  
He nips a little harder, soothing the hurt with his tongue after. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, watching you? How difficult you make things for me, sometimes? Do you know what you do to me?”  
  
“I feel like,” Rose replies, her voice going soft and breathy around the edges as she guides his hand up and under her skirt, to where she is growing warm and damp between her legs, “it’s pretty much the same thing you do to me.”  
  
He hums and Rose can feel the buzz reverberate in her spine. Tracing the curve of her hip beneath her skirt, the Doctor reaches up and yanks her pants down. Arousal floods through Rose, warming her chest down into her belly, lower. She steps out of the knickers, kicking them to the side. Her eyes shutter closed when the Doctor’s hand returns between her thighs, stroking in circles. His thumb brushes over her clit and she bucks into his touch with a sigh.  
  
“Tell me,” the Doctor says, his voice quiet, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear until she shudders, “what you want.”  
  
“More.”  
  
“More what?”  
  
Rose arches her hips insistently, pressing back against his erection as she rides his hand. His strokes grow firmer, teasing circles against her clit until she’s aching under his touch, ridiculously slick and swollen with need.  
  
“Just more,” she grits out, and she reaches back to touch him—it’ll be awkward, but she desperately wants to feel him—but he moves his hand from between her thighs to grab her by the wrist, stopping her. He guides her hand to the desk, placing her fingertips against it.  
  
“Hands on the desk,” he tells her.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“For leverage,” he says, and Rose feels a rush of wetness at the words.  
Pivoting so that she can plant both palms firmly on the desk, Rose shoots a glance over her shoulder to find the Doctor watching her as he unfastens his trousers, his gaze sliding over her body. Normally he might meet her eyes and offer a little wink, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. But there’s no hint of mischief in his demeanor tonight. No, if Rose had to pick a word for the look on his face right now, she would almost call it  _predatory_.  
  
Oh, fuck. And here she thought she couldn’t get any wetter.  
  
Rose hums in surprise when he closes the space between them, his mouth diving straight for her neck as his body collides with hers. His hand snakes back around, simultaneously teasing between her legs and pressing her so tightly against him that even the idea of distance ceases to exist. Biting her lip, Rose stifles a moan as the Doctor’s other hand slips beneath her blouse to stroke one breast, her nipple pebbling sharply beneath his touch. Between that and his teeth on her shoulder and his other hand between her legs and the fact that he can’t seem to stop himself from rubbing against her for relief, his cock hard and hot against her lower back, tension starts building up deep in Rose’s gut, deliciously torturous and exquisitely aching and god, she needs  _more_.  
  
“Harder,” she pants, and gasps as he replies with a pinch to her nipple.  
  
His hand falters and his rhythms still. “Too much?” he asks, his voice soft with worry, his fingers gently stroking her breast, as if in apology.  
  
Laughing weakly, Rose shakes her head as affection warms her chest. “No,” she says, insinuating her hand over his so he can feel her repeat the motion, pinching her nipple and teasing it until it’s almost painfully erect. “Don’t stop,” she says, arching up until her bum brushes the Doctor’s cock, and he lets out a low hiss. “God, don’t stop.”  
  
She presses against him again, teasing him even as she fucks herself on his hand, and with a growl the Doctor rucks her skirt up and over her bum, bunching it around her hips. The cool air is shocking on her arse, but she barely has time to register it before she feels the Doctor’s cock between her legs, sliding along her slick folds. Her legs tremble in anticipation and she leans over the desk, an invitation. (A plea.)  
  
He pushes inside and both of them let out a moan, Rose’s fingernails scratching a latticework of jagged little lines into the varnish of the desktop. Already, the friction is so good, and she relishes the way he stretches her. But the Doctor stops. Rose knows he’s doing it for her, trying to be a gentleman, waiting for her to accommodate him; he shudders and his breaths grow sharp and short, his fingers digging into her hips and Rose loves it, loves how he tries to reign himself in for her. (Loves knowing he only has so long before he finally snaps and loses control.)  
  
Widening her stance, Rose bends further over the desk and pushes back, taking him in as deep as she can with one slick and satisfying thrust. The Doctor swears under his breath, his grip on her hips tightening as he responds to her motion in kind, the two of them pushing and pulling and sliding, the air growing thick with the sounds of them coming together.  
  
“Tell me,” the Doctor pants, “how long you’ve been thinking of this.”  
  
“All day,” Rose grits out, pleasure winding her muscles tighter and tighter. “God, I’ve barely been able to think about anything else.”  
  
“Tell me you want this.”  
  
Eyes slamming shut as his thrusts grow faster, rougher, Rose grins. “Always,” she says.  
  
“Tell me you love me.”  
  
Rose squeezes around him and he groans, falling forward until his chest is pressed against his back and she can feel his heartbeat hammering madly against her spine. The change in angle means his cock is hitting her just right, just where she wants him, sending a jolt of pleasure zapping through her like an electric shock. “I love you,” Rose gasps, one hand flying down to intertwine fingers with the hand on her hip. “I love you, I love you, I’ve always loved you— _ah_ —”  
  
The Doctor removes their hands from her hip, slamming them on the desk, his fingers cinching tightly around hers, so tight it hurts. His strokes are growing erratic now, sloppy almost, and Rose can feel it in his throbbing cock that he’s about to come—this ancient, powerful, ridiculously intelligent being is about to climax, completely surrendering to this purely physical, instinctive need, and it’s all because of her, he’s losing himself like this because of  _her_ —  
  
With a cry, Rose comes, her muscles tensing and fluttering as bliss floods her body, rocking her in waves. She throws her free hand back to scrape her fingernails along the Doctor’s scalp, tangling her fingers in his sweat-dampened hair as her climax continues to thunder through her. It isn’t too long after that that the Doctor follows, moaning his relief into her neck, his cock pulsing and shuddering.  
  
For a few moments, neither of them can do anything but catch their breath, panting quietly in the dim office. The Doctor slides one hand around Rose’s waist in a hug.  
  
“Better?” he asks, his voice lazy.  
  
Rose nods tiredly. “You?”  
  
She feels him nod, planting a kiss between her shoulderblades, and she smiles. But soon, she also feels the discomfort of their positions settling in, her arms and legs burning from their earlier efforts, her back aching. She pulls away, slowly, wincing as she and the Doctor part.  
  
“Wait,” says the Doctor, and she hears him step away. A rustle of something soft, a flurry of motion, and the jangle of his zipper later, she feels a gentle pressure on her leg—the Doctor must have found a box of tissues on one of the desks, cleaned himself up before attending to her. Crouching on the floor behind Rose, the Doctor makes quick work of the cleanup, dragging the tissues across her over-sensitive flesh, pressing a kiss to one bum cheek when he’s done.  _Signing off on his work_ , Rose thinks, rolling her eyes fondly.  
  
Pulling her skirt back down, Rose turns around to see the Doctor toss the tissue in a wastebasket, pausing when he spots her knickers on the floor. He scoops them up into a jacket-pocket as he stands up. Rose arches an inquisitive eyebrow at him.  
  
“What?” the Doctor asks innocently, his eyes wide. “Can’t very well leave them there, can we?”  
  
Rose just laughs and pulls him down for a kiss.


End file.
